The Marble Heist Murders: A Detective Bass Mystery

—Day 1—

Police Detective Hodgins waited for a man wearing a dark overcoat and white sneakers to enter the apartment building. It had been raining all evening, and for the past three hours Hodgins, backed up by two squad cars parked around the corner from him, had staked out the place. Yesterday, an informant had told him that a certain man had arranged a meeting that night. The only details Hodgins had were the address of the five-story building and that the suspect would most likely be wearing sneakers of a white or gray nature.

Hodgins eventually spotted the man who fit the description. He came across the sidewalk, but a burst of rain caused him to turn up his coat collar and bury his chin behind the flaps; and when the man entered the building’s lighted lobby, his coat collar remained up. Hodgins never had a chance to see the man’s face. He could only wait for him to exit.

An hour passed, from ten to eleven. Hodgins became anxious. From his unmarked car he had watched several people exit. None matched the man who had entered earlier. And when another man passed through the lobby on his way out, Hodgins paid little attention after a brief look.

The man stood under the awing. He opened an umbrella and stepped out into the rain. Hodgins could see from the youthful build, the black slacks, the black shoes, and the quickness of steps across the rain-puddled sidewalk that this man was not their suspect.

There was a flash, quickly followed by the sound of a gunshot.

Hodgins swung around to look.

The man stumbled and dropped to the ground. The umbrella twirled in the rain.

Hodgins immediately called it in. Rifle shot, he said. I’m at the scene.

The other officers rushed to the fallen man. Hodgins soon joined them. Meanwhile, three uniformed officers dashed into the building and made their way to the rooftop.

By the time Detective Bass arrived, thirty-five minutes later, forensics had already propped up a tent on the grass encompassing the dead man’s body. Yellow flood-lights bathed the sides of the tent. Several lights were pointed toward the apartment building, aimed at the flat rooftop. Hodgins, who had been supervising the crime scene up to this time, had by now dismissed the idea that the dead man was involved in the case he was investigating.

Detective Bass walked toward the tent. His beige overcoat showed dark spatters from the drops still falling from the tips of tree branches.

Your partner, MacIntyre, with you? Hodgins shouted to him as he stood in front of the tent flaps. The canvas behind him was brightly illuminated.

Bass’s shoes sunk deep in the rain drenched earth as he met up with Hodgins. Not at the moment, he replied.

The two detectives waited a few feet outside the tent while forensics finished their camera work. They said nothing to one another for several minutes.

Side by side, Bass stood a few inches taller than Hodgins, although Hodgins was a few years younger. Both shared the fullness of maturity, and both shared years of experience. If there was a difference, it came from temperament. Bass was an office man: a form never left his desk incomplete. Give him a chair and a form and he was a happy man. Bad weather, night calls, long, endless days; he would gladly turn that all over to Hodgins. What drove Hodgins? What kept him going every day? Bass had no idea.

The tent flaps swung open. The two detectives watched as the paramedics lifted the body onto a gurney. The victim was already enclosed in a blue, plastic body bag. They zipped it closed and then rolled the body out.

Dead, right away? Bass asked.

Yeah, Hodgins replied. A single shot. He turned around and pointed to the top of the building where officers were scouring the roof for evidence. Their flashlights sliced through darkness. Half of the windows facing the street were lighted. Most had people staring out through the blinds.

The shot came from up there, Hodgins continued. The men are checking it out now. Maybe they’ll find something for you.

Why aren’t you doing this one? Isn’t this your case?

No. I’m working a different assignment.

While Bass waited for Hodgins to finish his explanation, he studied the man’s face. It was pale and red and pink all at the same time. His hair was yellowish and thin, slicked back over his scalp in long strands, wet with rain. Bass waited for the detective’s lips to move. They were damp from the rain, too. And narrow. Narrow by nature? Yes, Bass thought. But the man’s lips didn’t move. And he didn’t continue with an explanation.

Well? Bass asked. What about that case?

It’s none of your business. I don’t want you interfering.

What if they’re connected?

They aren’t.

How do I know that?

You don’t. I do.

Can I be sure of that?

Yes. That’s not the man I’m looking for. Believe me.

Why isn’t he?

The man we want doesn’t live here. This guy did. I checked his ID. Sergeant Phillips has it now. Hodgins nodded in the direction of a female officer who stood near one of the squad cars. The car’s red and blue flashing lights pulsed against her black uniform.

Hodgins continued, This man lives here in the building. He has no record. And he’s younger than the man we’re looking for. There might be a connection, but I doubt it. I can’t afford to waste my time on this.

Bass did not like the uncertainty. Uncertainty made him feel uncomfortable. He tightened the open area of his coat, securing it against a gust of damp wind.

That’s why you and MacIntyre are getting it, if he ever shows up, Hodgins said.

I never got a look at the body, Bass replied.

You know where the morgue is. See it there.

The paramedic van’s siren sounded at that moment. Several doors slammed shut and the vehicle pulled away, its red lights streak out into the night.

Bass gave up on Hodgins and went over to Sergeant Phillips. He took out a notebook.

Who do we have? he asked.

She handed him the victim’s driver’s license. John Patrel. Twenty-five. Lives in apartment four twenty-two.

Fourth floor?

Most likely, she replied.

Bass examined the license. Patrel seemed average in height and weight, and he did look young. Now he was dead, shot dead. Shootings? They were nothing new for Bass. He understood too well that for some people, the only way to figure out life was with a gun.

He thanked the sergeant and returned the driver’s license so it could be put with the victim’s other affects. After she left, Bass, with a feeling of dread, scanned the outer windows of the five-story building. At an estimated ten to twelve apartments per floor, that would mean a total of fifty to sixty individuals lived there, and they would all need to be canvassed and interviewed. Bass doubted that there would be more than two or three people who would even know who their neighbor was, even if he or she lived directly next door. And if the neighbor in question lived in the building five or six years? Bass doubted even that would make a difference.

Bass walked slowly over to the building and went up the few steps that led into the lobby. He spoke briefly with the couple who managed the apartments. They told Bass a murder was a first for them after managing the place for several years. Their vibrant, youthful faces were in shock and disbelief. And the yellow sconce lighting in the lobby gave the couple a ghoulish complexion. Bass assumed that they were mentally trying to figure out who to call at the management company. Who would get the unfortunate pleasure of being wakened at this hour of the night?

The wife stayed in the lobby while the manager accompanied Bass to the fourth floor to unlock Apartment 422.

Don’t touch anything, Bass cautioned the manager. It’s best if you wait in the hall.

Bass entered and flicked on the lights. He found that the apartment, at first glance, offered no signs of anything unusual. To Bass, it was a typical one-bedroom place set up for a single man. The walls were white and the commercial carpet was beige. A large flat screen television was located directly opposite a black leather couch. Cheap, domestically made, Bass thought. Although he was a detective, he was keen on furniture. His father had spent a lifetime selling home furnishings. Bass grew up under his wing, but not his influence, and by luck or fate, he had chosen a career different from his father’s. One that did not involve salesmanship or conning customers.

Bass assumed all furniture came from outlet stores nowadays, and he had no doubt that the couch was expensive. He felt the cushions. The texture of the leather was smooth, almost slick; the seams were even, but the grade was low quality. Bass laughed to himself. The outlet stores always overcharge for their poor quality merchandise. The young man’s TV probably came from the same store. And the wooden coffee table, which matched the small, round dining room table and its two chairs, probably came as a set. Men don’t like to shop, Bass knew that. They always choose the first thing they see if the price is right.

In the dining area there were two stacks of thick books on the table. Bass picked one up and thumbed through the pages. It was a pharmaceutical book. He set it down. The others were old text books and a pharmaceutical dictionary. The dead man appeared to have been a salesman, a pharmaceutical salesman. He laughed again. No one ever shot his father, not even for selling a cheap couch.

Patrel’s occupation was confirmed when Bass found a pay stub while sorting through a stack of open envelopes set between two books acting as bookends. The stub said L. L. Pharma. It was a good amount for a semi-monthly salary. Perhaps Patrel had wanted more, and was skimming drugs and selling them illegally, Bass thought. He noted that the company was located in a western suburb.

A glance at a wastebasket told Bass nothing. It was empty except for an occasional tissue. He left them undisturbed for forensics.

Bass checked the bedroom. Everything appeared neat. The bed was loosely made. A gray, checked comforter was arranged neatly over the pillows. No dust on the dresser or night table. The nightstand drawer contained a few condoms. There were no other signs of a feminine presence. On the dresser top were two cologne bottles. Bass wondered if the victim had a limited sense of smell. The man’s slacks were all hung orderly on one side of the double door closet. All the same length, all black except for two, which appeared to be casual khaki’s. The other side held his shirts. They were mostly white, and several were still enclosed in the dry-cleaner’s cellophane plastic. Bass checked the bathroom, which was neat as well. One tooth brush, and several unopened brushes were in the medicine chest. Contact lens solution, an electric razor.

Bass continued to search in a routine manner. Finding nothing unusual to hold his interest, his mind drifted back to Hodgins. Bass did not appreciate being kept in the dark about his assignment. As a detective, unanswered questions stuck in Bass’s mind like blanks on a form: you do not know if the questions are important until the answers are filled in. Hodgins always had the big cases, and most of those involved drugs. Bass assumed Hodgins’s case was one of those. Maybe this case had drug implications too. He would bring in the sniffing dog tomorrow.

Everything else between the white walls of the apartment seemed normal. Bass stepped to the blinds. The view was facing south, not the front of the building. Tree tops and wet, shingled roofs glistened from street lights. Farther south, fifteen to twenty blocks was the heart of the city. The direction his window faced meant that the victim had no idea what he was walking into, even if he had looked out the window. The squad cars were parked along the other side street. It did not seem fair to Bass that all it took was one rifle shot to end a life. But he had seen it before and like before, he wondered if the man deserved it. Some did, at least in the perpetrator’s eyes. For Bass, the question would be about motive, not moral values.

Bass left the apartment. You can lock it up now. Don’t let anyone in, he told the manager.

The man double locked the door.

The roof? Bass asked.

The manager pointed the way to get upstairs and to the roof top.

I’ll go up myself, Bass said.

On the roof, he saw that the two officers had already set up a series of lights, which shone downward onto the pea gravel that covered the whole area. In some low spots the rain had left dark pools of water. Bass made his way around the puddles as he approached one of the officers.

Nothing, the officer reported. See over there? Where the gravel was disturbed? He’d have a good line of sight if he stood there.

I understand only one shot was fired, Bass said.

We can’t find any shell casings, the officer said.

Too bad. Bass leaned over the parapet and looked down. He saw streams of headlights lighting the area. The wet pavement glistened from the corner street lights. The men along the street appeared to be very short from so high up. The forensic tent was half shrouded by tree branches.

Bass went back down to the street. He looked for Hodgins’s car.

He left, an officer said.

Bass understood. This little incident would have compromised anyone’s stakeout. Hodgins must have been mad.

—Day 2—

The next morning Bass filled in his partner on the case.

He stood in front of Macky’s desk and watched him shuffle papers and slam drawers. Bass was not used to sudden outbursts from his partner; it was not part of Macky’s nature. His face that morning was angry and scrunched up. His thick, solid features had become unusually flushed. His forehead was red as well, up to the line where the dense Scottish mass of graying hair began. Macky’s only typical aspect that day was his suit. Without any pre-arrangements, Macky had always taken to wearing grays into the office, most likely to complement his changing hair color. Bass had undertaken a simpler routine of wearing only browns, even though his own hair was beginning to gray.

Hodgins was there, Bass explained, standing idly to the side. I didn’t think I needed to call you.

We’re partners, aren’t we?

It was after ten. You’ve got your daughters.

They’re used to it. They’ve grown up with me leaving in the middle of the night. He slammed another drawer shut. The desk was metal and the drawer closed with a cheap, tinny rattle. The noise drew attention from the detectives on the other side of the room.

Macky continued, You don’t like Hodgins squeezing you out of cases and I don’t like you squeezing me out of mine.

That wasn’t the intent, Bass replied.

We’re in this together. Three years more of seniority means nothing in this force.

Two years, Bass corrected.

Macky slammed another drawer shut. If seniority meant anything, Hodgins would be licking both our boots.

Bass had no idea how to escape this argument, other than surrender. Then get upset. Maybe I was wrong. I don’t care. He pulled over a chair from the desk across the aisle and sat, leaning forward as his hands pressed down on his knees. Listen, I’ve got the dogs scheduled for this afternoon, that’s all that matters to me.

Dogs? Macky asked.

Yeah, Bass replied. It was his stab at a joke. There was only one dog. They both knew that. Pluralizing the animal made the K-9 force seem larger, like what other cities their size had. Joe and that mangy German shepherd of his, Bass continued.

I guess that qualifies. Macky said, his tone of voice softening.

That’s the easiest way I know how to search for drugs. Sergeant Phillips got the family information from the apartment manager, so she’s handling that end. And, according to the manager, our victim, John Patrel, twenty-five and single, lived there for a year and a half and was no problem whatsoever.

Macky had calmed now. More of his old self showed. He must have been someone’s problem.

He worked for a drug company. He could have been making something, or selling—

Or knew someone who was, Macky interjected.

Or known something.

Like a whistle blower?

Preliminary ballistics says it was a twenty-two rifle. Relatively common if you’re a small game hunter.

For deer hunting?

Not usually. But if he was a sportsman, he might also be a deer hunter. He would have used something like a .308. It's something to think about.

Could that guy who Hodgins was watching have been meeting him, meeting Patrel?

There were no signs of anyone else being in Patrel’s apartment that night. If they met, they didn’t meet there.

Maybe that’s why the guy went there? To shoot Patrel…from the roof?

You mean that guy Hodgins was following? Why shoot someone there on a rainy night? Don’t you think he would have noticed the squad cars from the roof, even in the rain? Bass asked. How could he carry in a rifle? Hodgins would have seen it.

Bass relaxed and leaned back in his chair while he waited for his partner to think things through, then he said, There’re too many questions to make that scenario work. Hodgins is probably right. He usually is. That shooting probably was just a coincidence. After a minute, Bass added, I’ll check with the dogs this afternoon. Are you going to handle his place of employment?

Macky nodded. I guess so.

Both Bass and Macky knew only three crimes stemmed from a workplace: hiding a bad product, embezzlement, or infidelity. An upward career move? No one ever killed for more work. Less work? Maybe, but never more work. More money, more sex, more drugs, more honor, more prestige, but never more work.

When Macky left for the office of L. L. Pharma, Bass went back to the apartment building. A forensic van was at the scene, parked next to the curb. Its roof reflected the sunlight streaming through the tree branches above at an angle and reflected off the top of the blue and white van. Bass knew that by the afternoon, you could fry an egg on the van’s roof. He parked and went over to the markers that had been set out the previous night by the team. The sidewalks were still wet and the police tape, which had been sagging earlier, had been readjusted, tightened, and extended out between several trees. The cool breeze coming in from the lake several blocks over felt refreshing. He looked for Jed, the man in charge of forensics. Another member of the team directed him to the roof, where Bass could see two other men standing near the parapet.

The lobby door had been propped open. Bass took the elevator up. He crossed the wet pea gravel on the roof. Jed around? he asked.

Eighth Street, one of them replied.

Bass noticed the plastic forensic kit sitting on the parapet. Anything new? he asked.

No. This was clearly the line of sight, the taller member of the team replied. There’s disturbance in the gravel, but not much.

Yeah, I saw it last night. Bass peered over the edge of the roof and studied the crime scene below. Find anything down there?

Nothing there either.

Could the shell casing have fallen over the side? Bass asked.

Not likely. With that type of rifle, it could easily have been picked up by hand. One shot? Bolt action? It could have stayed in the rifle. He pointed to an area below, ground level, four feet from the building. We’ve looked down there just the same, in case he tossed it. Didn’t find anything.

No prints?

No prints.

Bass scanned the rooftop. The dozen fan vents looked like chrome mushrooms. The gear room for the elevator and the side by side roof entrance were built with the same white painted brick as the building. We checked that door last night, Bass said, referring to the elevator equipment room. It was locked. He had to have gone back down the stairs. Officers were up here within five minutes. You get any prints off the door that led here?

No. The knob was busted off.

That means he didn’t have keys, Bass thought to himself. He was not satisfied though. None of the answers were any good. They were the truth, but not what he was looking for.

From Bass’s vantage point on the roof, he could see most of the cityscape southward and sections of the lake’s blue horizon on the other side of the treetops. Nice view, he said.

Nice breeze, said the other man. It’s going to be hot again today.

And humid, Bass added. The rain didn’t help much.

Bass was already feeling the sun’s rays sink into the fabric of his brown suit. He turned back to the taller of the two men. See the manager this morning? Bass asked.

Yeah, he’s downstairs.

Bass took the elevator to the lobby. As the doors opened, he smelled the lemon scent of cleaned floors. He spotted a mop bucket in the hall and then found the young manager around the corner, dressed in an old pair of blue jeans and a yellow polo shirt.

Bass